


The End of All Things

by will (pointedperception)



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, sort of meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 11:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pointedperception/pseuds/will
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When we were young, it was so simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of All Things

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by a heartbreaking song at 2 AM and no one stopped me, so here's some sad CharlieMac you didn't ask for.  
> It's Charlie's POV, but if he could articulate everything he's thinking. It's really more just me trying to get inside of his head, though. I dunno. Just go with it.

 

_Whether near or far,_

_I am always yours;_

_any change in time,_

_we are young again_

_Lay us down,_

_we're in love_

_In these coming years_

_many things will change,_

_but the way I feel_

_will remain the same_

_Lay us down,_

_we’re in love,_

_we’re in love._

 

            When we were young, it was so simple. We’d walk home after school, throwing rocks at cats and bashing rats until it was too dark and were too hungry. We’d go to whoever’s house was closer, unless Uncle Jack was in town, in which case you’d insist we go to yours even if it was a few blocks further down the street. You’d grab leftovers from the fridge and a couple beers and we’d sit on your bed, laughing about nothing and everything, enjoying what we had. Sometimes I’d pass out and you’d let me sleep beside you. I always secretly hoped you would, so I could curl up beside you and breathe in your scent. I swore your lips left that warmth on my cheek each morning, but I never asked and you never mentioned it.

            There were snowflakes on your eyelashes the first time you kissed me. I still had a handful of rocks that I squeezed too tightly and they cut into my hand, but I didn’t care. Your lips burned into mine, even though we were both flushed with the first nip of frostbite. The familiar whistle of an oncoming train pulled us apart; we still had rocks, after all, and it was our Christmas tradition. Your fingers interlocked with mine until we got back to your house and you let go and told me not to tell anybody. I didn’t.

            Your mouth was bitter and smoky and your hands searched under my shirt. I gasped when you kissed my neck, hormones rushing through my body like an electric current. We were 17 and this was infinitely better than anything we had huffed in the school bathroom. We were vulnerable together. Your kisses branded me all over my body, heat lighting me up in ecstasy. I let myself become yours without reluctance.

            We were so perfect, so comfortable. You must’ve gotten bored, because you started hanging out with Dennis and he didn’t like me. He called me Dirt Grub and you laughed with him as he struck me down. It didn’t make sense. I walked home alone, snatching my mom’s bottles of cheap wine, sitting in the sharp silence of my room. My cheeks were hot and sticky as I fell asleep against a damp pillow, your scent wafting through my memories and your kisses in my dreams. We had been so perfect, so what went wrong? What did I do wrong to make you stop kissing me under the bleachers every day during lunch? Was it because I said what we had been avoiding so long?

            I can’t blame you. You deserve someone with a higher IQ and better hygiene; a girl like Dennis taught you to like. You’ll end up with some pretty blonde girl you met a bar, who laughs at every smile you give her. You’ll kiss her and touch her like you did to me; only maybe you’ll mean it this time. Maybe you’ll move in together, get married, and have kids. Maybe you’ll be happy and none of it will include me and maybe that will be okay.

            The waitress is a distraction, a scapegoat. I chase after her because she’ll never chase back. She would rather take a bath in piss than ever touch me; that won’t change, and that’s good. It’s not her kisses I crave every day, or her smile that sends my heart fluttering away. I’m afraid to chase you instead in case you might run, because I would shatter if I lost you.

            Choosing between losing you and loving you makes my head hurt, like a hangover I can’t cure. My heart screams and begs for you, but my mind knows better. Do you think our hands would still fit like puzzle pieces? Would our lips still burn if they were pressed together? Or have we grown so different that even those constants wouldn’t hold to be true? I’m haunted by a fictional future hatched from a past that could have been so much greater. I still see those imperceptible brands you left on my skin so long ago, marking me forever as yours. If I shut off the world, your lips are almost warm against mine. Just for a moment, we’re together again. My lips pulled taught by joy slowly loosen as I look around my decrepit apartment and I’m surrounded by the sickening reality of loneliness.

            Let’s be 17 again, just for a day. Let’s huff some glue and drink until we throw up, so we can lose enough inhibition to become lost in each other again. Forget about whether we’ll go to Hell or not or if anyone will find out and call us faggots. Fuck them. We’ll build ourselves armor with kisses that can’t be extinguished and forge weapons with our combined strength. We could do anything and everything because together we are more powerful than apart. We’re two halves to a whole and no one else could ever take that place; you’re my favorite pair of old jeans and nothing will ever fit as perfectly as you. Even if they’re falling apart, we can patch them up and they’ll be stronger than they ever were. So, will you help me mend them, or will I be left to sit and watch as they unravel, strand by strand?

            When we’re older, it’ll be so simple. We’ll rent a place in South Philly, where we can watch the sunrise through the cracks in our bedroom blinds, the ghost of a kiss still on my cheek when I wake up and can breathe you in. We can go down to the railroad tracks just to hear the soft clink of rock against metal that always means Christmas, even when the color starts to fade from our hair and our faces begin to crease. We’ll go down to the bar and talk about that time we almost died or the biggest rat we killed or how we found ourselves so accidentally but madly in love. Or maybe not, you always blush and yell when I get sappy like that, except sometimes when we’re alone and you whisper that you love me too. Maybe when we die and they’ll find our fingers intertwined in one last gesture of affection. They’ll say how we had always belonged together before they bury us side by side, hands locked together for eternity. 


End file.
